


Woke Up on the Wrong Side of the Desk Again

by a_xmasmurder



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Paperwork sucks, The Double Os try to make it better, The Quartermaster is loved, Work, bad day, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q's having a bad day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woke Up on the Wrong Side of the Desk Again

**Author's Note:**

> It started as a little "I'm having a bad day" drabble and turned into...this. First person Q POV. Um. Yeah. *hides*

Bad day.

It is a bad day all around. I have a mound of paperwork on both my workshop desk AND my normal desk. The one I never visit because there’s...paperwork. Seriously, who does paperwork anymore? There’s a reason I’m trying to make this as streamlined and paperless as possible.

Argh, _paperwork_.

And that’s not the least of my worries. Somehow, one of my interns managed to destroy not one, but TWO very important projects that were supposed to be up for review tomorrow. So there’s that. God, I should fire them both and replace them with trained chimpanzees. Or llamas. Either animal would do, because they are still collectively smarter than half my bloody staff.

Oh, and someone tried to hack MI6. Granted, this is an everyday occurrence; you would think that, with the threats of treason and men in black suits with Walthers showing up at your doorstep at two thirty five in the morning on a Tuesday to drag you naked to the holding cells in the bowels of the Castle… but that doesn’t seem to stop the thrillseekers amongst the hacking community. No, I’m talking about a serious hack. One that I, of course, had to stop everything I was doing for, thereby losing an entire week’s worth of code in one fell swoop because someone turned off my bloody computer while the programmes were still running, and when I find out who did that, I’m going to use them for target practise!

So I’m now sitting here at my workshop desk, in front of my computer, trying not to put my fist through the monitor because Betty still isn’t back with my really really complicated coffee order and by the Gods if she gets it wrong so help me I will have an actual crying fit. I will cry and scream and kick and raise all sorts of Cain and for fuck’s sake Double O Seven is in my workshop. He’s actually in. My. Domain. Why. Why is he here, and why is he walking towards me and what the bloody hell happened to him? He looks...crispy. Very crispy. Oh no, he’s here. He’s at my desk. And he looks like he’s going to open his mouth and that is never a good thing...and...what?

What did he just drop on my keyboard?

“It’s for you.”

“Why?” No. That’s not what I wanted to ask. “What is it?” There we go.

“It’s the transmitter.”

I look back down at the lump of melted plastics and metal. “That...that is not a transmitter, that is a lump.”

“Trust me. That’s the transmitter.” James looks at me and smirks. Actually fucking smirks at me. “It had a rough time of it.”

“Clearly.” I pick the poor thing up and turn it over in my hand. “Your attempt at modern art, Double O Seven? You could do so much better.”

He shrugs in my general direction.

“Like not trying out your newfound artistic talents on my equipment.” I’m still not sure this is even the transmitter, or if Bond is messing with me. All of the Double Os have tried to upset me. None have actually succeeded. That time that I threw my keyboard at Double O Eleven doesn’t count because I was having a really bad day and he came on to me. Me. The bloody fucking Quartermaster. Head Quartermaster, at that. Idiots, the whole lot of them. I look back up, and James Bond is still standing at my desk.

“You are still here. Why? Have you even walked _near_ Medical yet?”

“I have to sign over my weapons, right? You are still anal retentive about that, aren’t you?”

Anal retentive? Bastard. I’ll show him anal effing retentive, when I shove my new grenade launcher up his smug arse and pull the damned trigger, for all the good that would do. There isn’t much up there in that thick head of his after a mission, anyway. Never is. Primary functions after missions for Double Os are drinking, fucking, and sleeping. Not necessarily in that order, either, and on one memorable occasion at the same time.

“Irritating, Double O Seven. And you didn’t answer my question about Medical. Did you even walk in the general direction of that area? You should be there...oh, whatever. Nevermind. Hand it over, I’ll just get the form out -” I bend down to retrieve the turnover forms out of the bottom drawer where I’d shoved them last. Blergh, more fucking paperwork, damn it all to hell. I’m getting the whole system automated and paperless even if I have to shell out my own money for it...what the hell is he handing me? “That isn’t a weapon, Double O Seven. That is a paperweight.”

Now the look on Bond’s face is actually apologetic, which means one of two things: one, he’s doing his damnedest not to get in trouble, or he’s lying. Both, usually.

“Sorry. I...had to use it a little unconventionally.”

The poor gun is a mess, an utter bloody mess...literally, I discover as I pluck it out of his hand and inspect the bent breech. Dried blood mars the magazine well and the sight. “Another attempt at a sculpture. I'll give you points for effort, but execution...Good God, man, what did you hit with this, a moose?”

“A moose of a man, yes. But I actually used it to block the control room door while I disarmed the bomb.”

Oh. My. GOD. “You used...your gun. Your bloody lifeline. To block a door.”

“There wasn’t anyone alive in the room to use it on. I didn’t want anyone getting in. Simple solution.” James shrugs again, and I have a sudden urge to strangle him, just to see how long it would take him to break me in half. I look back down at the remains of the gun in my hands.

“Pipe? A chair? A body? Something other than your bloody gun?”

James shrugs.

“Stop _shrugging!_ ” I drop the gun to my worktop. “Just sit down and fill out this bloody form, please.” I shove the papers and a biro at the recalcitrant man and roll away to check the progress of the coding programmes on the other monitor, the one that I’ve taped a large sign with large letters that states that if anyone shuts this computer off in a misguided attempt to be helpful that I was going to gut them with their own pair of scissors because I wasn't going to waste mine on idiocy. The thump behind me is either Bond leaving in a huff or Bond sitting down like a good boy and actually filling out the report. I steal a glance behind me. Bloody fucking God, it’s Christmas. He’s actually doing it. I turn back to adjust some settings, and then suddenly there’s ruckus at the other end of the bullpen. I look up, and I just want to cry out for mercy.

Alec Trevelyan is heading my way.

Oh, please, just make my day worse. Blow more things up. Blow MI6 up. Blow ME up. Just...please. Kill me now. I take a breath, and James looks at me, his eyebrow cocked.

“Not right now, Double O Seven. Finish the form.”

By the time I’m done reprimanding him, Alec is in front of my desk, sprawled in the guest chair.

“How can I help you, Double O Six?”

Alec grins at me, and I have a sinking sensation in my stomach. “I’ve got a mission. I’m sure you have the memo somewhere on this mess of a desk.”

I narrow my eyes at the insufferable man in front of me. “My desk is not a ‘mess’, Double O Six. It is the desk of a busy man, and I didn’t get a mem-” I look down, under my left hand, and sure enough there is a interdepartmental memo, glaringly pink, stating that yes, indeed, Alec Trevelyan does have a mission in three hours and will you please set up a loadout kit for him as soon as possible, please?

Oh my GOD, just fucking EMAIL ME. E. Mail. Is that so hard to understand? I don’t respond well to paper products. They give me hives and the incurable urge to kill humans. I repress a groan and snatch the damned infernal paper up and stare at it to avoid the undoubtedly smug and satisfied look on Alec’s face.

“Fine, yes. Give me ten minutes, tops.” I shove the lump of what James is still insisting is a transmitter off to one side of my desk to make room for the case that Alec would need. “Can you go...populate another area of MI6 while you wait? The rec room? Showers? Women’s lav? M’s office?”

“Do you think I want to piss him off just before an assignment, Quartermaster? That’s just asking to get abandoned in the field.” Alec smirks, a dangerous gleam in his green eyes, and good Lord above, when did that man start looking so _good?_ I steal a desperate glance at James, and he’s even looking. Granted, he’s also looking at me, eyebrow raised again. I growl in impatience. I need to get laid. I haven't had a leg over in months, and apparently I'm starting to get desperate.

“Do your paperwork!” I snap, then shake a finger at Alec. “And you would rather piss me, the man that will most likely be running you at four a.m. in the bloody morning with a lack of coffee because the damned coffee maker decided to stop working an hour ago and I haven’t even had time to fix the thing, off?”

That finally gives Alec pause, and I can’t help the smile that pulls at my face. “Didn’t think so. Leave me be so I can get your…” I stare at the memo again. “What the hell do you need a rocket launcher for?”

Alec’s eyes light up. “Yes, I get to play with the new munitions! I knew it!”

James growls. “Damn you, Alec, I wanted first dibs at them.”

“They are giving you. You.” I point uselessly at Alec again. “YOU. A rocket launcher. How? How do they think this is a good idea? _Why_ do they think this is a good idea?” I feel like whining, or running headlong into one of the concrete pillars down here. “You, with a rocket launcher. Right off the bat. How the hell? Do they want the world to burn down?”

Alec is too busy doing his version of a happy dance to answer me. James is still sulking in his chair and pushing his biro in ever more interesting patterns. I’m starting to fear for the future of England. A bloody fucking rocket launcher, undoubtedly Research and Development’s idea if they are letting him get his hands on the...oh. Oh no. No. “You are not using the depleted uranium shells. No.”

Alec stops. “Why not?” He sounds for all the world like a child who just had his favourite toy taken away.

“Are you kidding me right now? You are kidding. You have to be.” I shake my head. “Those are prototypes for a reason! They can’t just go and hand them out like party favours to every damned Double O that walks across their path!” I stand up and run my hands through my hair. Hair I haven’t had the time to wash or style in the last forty hours, so God only knows what it looks like right now. “If another country gets their hands on the munitions, our entire project would go down the drain!” I groan in dismay. “What the hell are they thinking down there?”

“Actually, they are up.” James has a penchant for the obvious. I glare at him.

“Paperwork.”

“Oh, to hell with it. I’m done filling it out anyway.” He gets up and leans against my desk. “You sound like you could use a drink or five.”

I sigh. Drinks. Yes, I could use a drink, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to go out with...wait. Is he offering...

“Let’s go out for a few, shall we?” And sure enough, there’s the little ‘I’m James Bond, and you are my prey’ smirk on his face. “I’ll pay.”

Damned right, he is going to pay. But unfortunately, I have...paperwork. Paperwork that needs to be done tonight. I shake my head, sorry that my life has to revolve around dead trees and dyes. “I’m afraid I am a bit busy for that, Double O Seven.” Alec is now staring at me. No, he’s _gawping_. “Shut your jaw, Double O Six, before you attract flies.” I slide his memo into my pocket. “Double O Seven, I have a kit to make ready for your comrade. I have reports to fill out and file. I have a coffee that should have been here ten minutes ago. I have a coffee maker to fix, a programme to write, and a project to fix. Coding to fix. And a new arsehole to ream when Marcus comes in for his shift.” I sigh. “I don’t need more distractions, so if you are done, could you please go...elsewhere?”

James Bond does not move. “I’ll wait here. Take your time.”

Oh, yes. He’s either coming on to me, which will get his attempt at modern art thrown at his head along with a keyboard or two, or he’s genuinely trying to...what? What is he doing? Is this his attempt to help me out? A peace pipe? A gesture of friendship? What would a couple of drinks hurt? I take the slip back out of my pocket.

Drinks with a Double O. That could hurt a lot of things, especially if he’s as good in bed as he sounds over the communications link, and by God, my brain is emphatically NOT going down that road. At. All. Nope. U-turn. Recalculating route. “Um, no. Sorry. Busy.” I grab some things off my desk. “See? Busy.”

“Why not? We could make it a quickie before I have to leave.” Alec shrugs, and I am sure I’m turning a rather unattractive shade of tomato because ‘quickie’? Really? Even James is staring at him, but for a completely different reason - oh shit. He’s got the ‘look’ in his eyes. The ‘look’ never bodes well for quiet nights in front of tellies and Xboxes…

“We could, couldn’t we?” And he's purring. PURRING. 

No, we really couldn’t. “No. Absolutely not, I have to get Alec ready and off to wherever he’s going this time…” I look at the slip again. “...Toronto.” I look up at him in minor shock. “You need a rocket launcher for _Toronto?_ ”

Alec shrugs. “I was not part of the committee that decided to send me to a civilised nation, Quartermaster.”

“We are not giving you something to blow up another something in bloody TORONTO.” I pull my tablet to me and go through my weapons inventory, ticking off possibilities as they flickered to life. “No, no, definitely _not_ , never, niet, nein, not a chance in _Hell_...oh, this could work. A prototype rifle. Explosive rounds. Should do you just fine - “ More ruckus out in the bullpen, and I look up to find one of my engineering techs running towards me, full tilt. Oh, this can't be good. Nope. No. Capital letters NO. No more…”What can I do for you, Harv -” Alarms start blinking and bleeping at me from my work laptop, which is permanently connected to the security and safety systems here. Definitely not on the scale of Good. This is decidedly off the scale. I type in some commands, urging the computer to tell me what the ruddy hell is going wrong now.

“Q! Oh, fuck me. Something’s gone wrong in the lab.”

What. I blink. The lab. “The lab, or the Lab?” The clarification is needed. Sorely needed. Because if it’s the lab, we are good. If it’s the Lab…

Harvey’s face says it all, and I groan in dismay and no small amount of horror. Before he can say anything, James raises his hand. “What’s in the Lab?”

“Something not even you have clearance for, sir.” Harvey says in dismissal as I blurt out a chemical sequence too complicated for the two men to follow and slap the pink slip down on the table. Goddamned son of a whorish cunt, we need to get everyone out. Everyone. All of MI6. I’m hitting buttons on my tablet, shutting down the environmental system for the entire building as I move to the main control station at the other side of my sanctum. The air stops its barely noticeable humming, and James and Alec both go on high alert, hands going instinctively to gun holsters and eyes sharp and roving, looking for intruders. I pause, realising I can put them to work.

“Double Os Six and Seven!”

“Yes, sir.” They bark in unison, and I am so fucking happy that they are here.

“Evacuation protocol six.”

They nod and go to work. I don’t have to mention what evacuation protocol six is, because they have all of the protocols memorised. Even the new ones. Even the ones that change weekly, daily...sometimes even hourly, if we are on a high alert. I get to work shutting down access to the Lab, ensuring that everyone had evacuated from the area before selecting three separate icons on the touchscreen in front of me as people leave, herded by James and Alec and Harvey. The first one seals off the possibly infected/contaminated area entirely by locking all of the airlocks leading to and away from it. The second icon activates the decontamination routine. It’s a multi-step process designed to kill everything. Literally. Everything. Essentially, it’s a spray of decontaminants, then UV blasts the area...and then there’s the FAE. Fuel-air explosive.

When that goes off, the overpressure kicks me in the chest and my ears begin to ring relentlessly. I can feel the heat, despite our distance from the actual site. Jesus Christ, that’s intense. And effective.

After three anxious minutes, the alarms on my laptop silence themselves, and I press the final icon, sounding the all-clear. I breathe in, close my eyes, grab my phone off its charger and send off a text to M.

_**\- We need a new lab. Also, there has got to be a better way to do this. -** _

  
  
  


After the circus of biohazard specialists come down and make sure that yes, indeed, all of my sensors worked perfectly and that the area was completely clear, I’m allowed to have my staff back. When it is all said and done, the whole incident took a total of two hours, two hours that I had to myself. Blessedly quiet, too, except when men in blue ‘monkey suits’ forced me to answer questions on the incident. Two hours that were spent getting Alec’s kit together, working on the projects, working on my programming, and setting everything in the emergency response system straight once more so that when something like this happens again, it will work just as splendidly. For once, something went right today, and I’m in paroxysms over it. Almost literally, it seems, because the level of excitement that I’m feeling is bordering on manic. In fact, I’m flicking my fingers over the screen of my tablet, making notes on the system and giggling. Giggling. God, I need sleep. Or alcohol. Or both. My mind strays to James Bond for the third time in as many minutes, and I shuttle those thoughts away into a locked room and duct tape the door shut once more.

This is becoming a problem.

“Hey, Quartermaster.”

Oh, speak of the Devil…

“Double O Seven, what on Earth could you possibly want with me now?”

“Other than that drink?”

I groan in his general direction, and he raises his hands in mock defence. “I’m joking. No, I’m here to let you know that everyone is back and in working condition, save for the excited chattering about what could have possibly went wrong in the Lab. Which you have yet to tell me.”

“I did.” I busy myself with not looking at the insufferable man.

“No, you spoke in Tongues at me.”

“It was a chemical formula.”

“Same thing.”

Oh my GOD. “Hardly the same thing, Double O Seven -” I look up at him, and he’s leaning up against the workshop table and giving me the kindest smile I’ve ever seen on his face. To say it throws me for a loop is an understatement. I’m aware I’m staring, but I can’t seem to stop myself. James’ smile grows until he’s grinning. “Your eyes are gorgeous when you smile like that, you know.”

OH MY GOD I JUST SAID THAT OUT LOUD. Where is the nearest cliff so I can throw myself off it?

James laughs. Oh, he laughs, and it’s like Christmas. He’s laughing at me, which strangely enough I don't mind, despite the years upon years of being teased and laughed at and bullied. Somehow, coming from Bond, it was less an insult as something...kinder. Warmer. Nicer. Oh, I'm so screwed.

“Your face is priceless, Q.” James leans forward and brushes a hand over my shoulder. I stop breathing for a moment. “I like it. Drinks?”

“You are relentless.” I huff out the breath I was holding and shake my head. And oh, there’s Betty, holding...oh Lord. “That’s not my coffee, is it?”

Betty paused, and nodded mutely.

I growl something under my breath, I can’t even be bothered to figure out what the noise means, and snatch the tiny cup of what I can smell is not a double chocolate chip mocha latte with extra whip. I take a sip. Nope. Just regular old coffee. I glare at her.

“Um, the regular coffee shop you like was closed, and then the whole thing with whatever happened happened, and I…”

“You got lost, didn’t you, Betty?”

She nodded again, and I groan. “Figures. Alright, fine, it’s fine, I’ll just…” I drain the cup of lukewarm brown liquid and stare at James instead of her. Thoughts are rolling through my head. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m actually debating taking him up on his offer. I flick my hand at my secretarial intern, and turn my full attention to James. “Do you realise you are entirely ridiculous?” I barely notice her scurry away. James does, though.

“Part of the charm.” Now he’s smirking, but that hand stays where it’s landed on my upper arm. “Are you alright?”

I cock my head. “Yes. Why?”

“Because you’ve obviously had a shit day.” The hand stays, but the fingers tighten incrementally. “I just want to make sure you will be alright, even if you don’t take me up on drinks. Which, by the way, alcohol solves quite a few stress related issues.”

“By creating more.”

“Nothing you can’t work around. It will make you forget about paperwork, won’t it?” I really want to smack the smug right off his face. Either that, or kiss it off. Either action will most likely create even more headaches for me, so I don’t do either. James laughs at me again.

“What now?”

“You’re gonna want that drink, I think.” His eyes slide past me, and he nods curtly at someone behind me. I turn around, and is that really Honey Peters holding what’s left of...oh, no. No. _Not that. Anything_ but that project, the prototype miniature supercomputer that I’ve been working on for a year. The one that I was going to introduce to the committee on Monday as a possible solution to all the damned backlog in the current system. The one that I’ve been logging extra hours and extra money and extra parts and quite of bit of blood and sweat, literally on some days. I blink at her, and then blink at the mass of component parts and broken plastic and wiring and I just...I want to start crying. I’ll be damned if I start crying in front of James bleeding Bond. But the feeling is there, in my gut. A _year_ of work…gone, dead, broken, destroyed. I want to shoot things. I want to cry in a corner. I want to _murder_ whomever did this.

“What happened to that?” I’m surprised I can keep my voice level. James cocked one brow. Honey winces.

“I think that, in the hurry to get out of the main workshop, someone might have knocked it over?”

“It was on the highest shelf so that no one could do such a thing.” I am certain that it was put somewhere safe.

“Sir?” Mark comes in behind Honey. “It was the decontamination team. They knocked over at least three shelving units in the main workshop while they were working. I just got word. Apparently, they weren’t very gentle while looking for the cause of the incident in the Lab.”

James Bond stares incredulously, and says what is tumbling over in my very unhappy mind. “But the workshop is nowhere near the Lab. Why are they looking in there?”

Three shelving units? The shelving units that had my special projects on them. My brain is vibrating.

Mark shrugs, and I’ve had it. I’m done with this day, I’m done with the whole fucking thing. I snatch up my tablet and my jacket, and stalk out the door, shoving unceremoniously past the two interns. I am on a mission. A very important one. And James Bond is on my heels. This makes me feel so much better, and I’m not sure why. No. I _do_ know why. Because I have the deadliest man I know behind me, and I know that whatever happens next, he’s got my back. He’s my backup, he’s the voice in my ear on this mission.

That gives me courage to walk up to the head biohazard specialist, who was talking with Tanner and M, grip him by the shoulder, twist him around, and slam my fist into his bastard face.

James breaks down in a fit of laughter for the third time today, and it warms the cockles of my heart to know that I caused it each time.

  
  
  
  


“That...was entirely worth the note in my file.” I’m nursing my hand, a bag of frozen peas pressed against the bruised and cracked knuckles, at Bond’s kitchen table.

“It was worth the note in my file for letting you do it. It was so entirely worth seeing that jerk’s face when he woke up. Too bad Alec wasn’t there to see you coldcock him. He would have gotten a note for laughing like a loon and high-fiving you.”

I smile and raise my arms. “Broken hand, remember? He’d probably hurt me.” I look over to James, who is laid out on his overstuffed sofa, shoes off and a beer in his hand. He still looks a little overdone, but it isn't as bad here in the natural lighting of his home. He’s flicking through the channels on the television idly. I can’t help but notice how much he resembles both a relaxing tiger and just some normal man who has a day off of work. He’s dressed in a grey tee shirt and dark jeans, and his toes wriggle in the confines of his socks. “Comfortable?”

James turns his face away from the screen and smiles up at me, lazy and confident. “Not quite. C’mere.”

Right now, I just do as he asks. I walk over and plop down in front of him, careful not to block his view. He’s settled for QI, which delights me to no end, and I lean back when his free hand finds its way into my hair.

“So I look gorgeous when I smile?”

I nod, unwilling and unable to take that back.

“So do you.”

I smile.

Well, today wasn’t all that bad after all.

 

 

  
  
  



End file.
